ourage sufficient to look
up to where the sound proceeded from; but the darkness was so intense,
and the snow blinded me so completely, that I could see nothing. Again
and again did the dreadful sound ring in our ears, and we remained fixed
and motionless with horror; even the dog crouched at our feet trembling.
We spoke not a word--neither of us moved; the gun had fallen from my
hand; the hare lay at Tom's feet; we held each other's hand in silence,
and there we remained for more than a quarter of an hour, every moment
more and more sinking under the effects of cold, fatigue, and horror.
Fortunately for us the storm, in which had it continued much longer we
should, in all probability, have perished, was by that time over; the
snow ceased to fall; the clouds were rolled away to leeward; and a clear
sky, bespangled with a thousand twinkling lights, roused us from our
state of bodily and mental suffering. The first object which caught my
eye was a post within two yards of us. I looked at it, followed it up
with my eyes, and, to my horror, beheld a body suspended and swinging in
chains over our heads.

As soon as I recovered from the shock which the first view occasioned, I
pointed it out to Tom, who had not yet moved. He looked up, started
back, and fell over the dog--jumped up again, and burst out into as loud
a laugh as his frozen jaws would permit. "It's old Jerry Abershaw,"
said he, "I know him well, and now I know where we are." This was the
case; Abershaw had, about three years before, been hung in chains on
Wimbledon Common; and the unearthly sound we had heard was the creaking
of the rusty iron as the body was swung to-and-fro by the gale. "All's
right, Jacob," said Tom, looking up at the brilliant sky, and then
taking up the hare, "we'll be on the road in five minutes." I
shouldered the gun, and off we set. "By the Lord, that rascally
common-keeper was right," continued Tom, as we renewed our steps; "he
prophesied we should come to the gallows before long, and so we have.
Well, this has been a pretty turn out. Father will be in a precious
stew."

"Better luck next time, Tom," replied I; "it's all owing to that
turf-and-bog rascal. I wish we had him here."

"Why, what would you do with him?"

"Take down old Abershaw, and hang him up in his place, as sure as my
name's Jacob."

CHAPTER TWENTY.

OUR LAST ADVENTURE NOT FATAL--TAKE TO MY GROG KINDLY--GROG MAKES ME A
VERY UNKIND RETURN--OLD TOM AT